


Light at the End of the Tunnel

by The_Butterfly_Mistress



Series: London's Children (Temporary Name) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Paternal Lestrade, Protective John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Butterfly_Mistress/pseuds/The_Butterfly_Mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are still in the hospital, with Greg by their sides. Among the peace and chaos, he gets a small glimpse into the boys' past and current problems. Is he really fit to care for two, troubled boys?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light at the End of the Tunnel

**Author's Note:**

> You asked for more, I'm giving you more! I'm glad to see this story so well received. I intended to make it more series like, but for now, it seems to be progressing differently. This one is short, sorry about that. I've had a migraine for nearly a month now, and an influx of papers have come in for grading, so I've not had a lot of time or motivation to write. I hope you enjoy nonetheless, and I look forward to reading your thoughts. Thank you again for all the support and reviews. Biggest thank you goes to my friend and beta "Proud to be an X-nerd" for helping me out. You're the best!

Light at the End of the Tunnel

The following morning was quiet. They didn’t seem to have a particular problem with Lestrade. For the most part, they even accepted his presence and allowed interaction between them, but otherwise both boys ignored the inspector. Instead, they generally kept to themselves, speaking in low volumes and tones, avoiding tasks in which they couldn’t do for themselves. Sherlock even went so far as to feed John himself, rather than let Greg help out, when John became frustrated with his left arm. He couldn’t help but feel slightly hurt by this; he had been certain progress was being made the other night. Even so, he persevered; it had probably been ages since they had relied on anyone but each other, and not many children willingly interacted with adults.

Breakfast turned to lunch, and noon turned to evening, with the small television in the corner producing the most sound in the last several hours. The detective dozed on and off throughout the last few shows as between the healing and the drugs neither of the boys were usually awake for long and therefore, it was safe for him to catch a few winks. Lestrade had even managed to sneak out for some of the sludge the hospital disguised as coffee once or twice while the boys had slept. It was the dinner cart rolling in that woke the sleeping detective, just in time to see sharp eyes watching slam shut. Sherlock had been awake after all. He thanked the nurse and turned to wake John and Sherlock, letting the boy think he hadn’t been caught.

With a gentle hand on his good shoulder, Greg gently shook the sandy haired preteen. “Come on, John, there’s a good lad. Time for supper and then you can sleep again.” He chuckled at the grumbles, and then frowned with the grimacing that came from having to move and sit up. He pushed the kid back, using a remote to sit the bed up, to minimize the pain. “Easy, John, I’ll take care of the part.”

A quiet “thanks” came in reply and Greg moved on to the burrowed lump beside his upright charge. “Come on, Sherlock. You’re hungry aren’t you?” The lump closest to the pillow shook a negative. “Not even a little bit?” Again, a shake of the head, “Well, then I guess that means I can have this chocolate biscuit on your tray, yeah?  
”  
Curls popped from the scratchy, thin blanket, followed by the return of that piercing gaze, as if assessing if the adult would truly eat his treat. Greg was bluffing, of course, but he still made to act out his threat, reaching for the coveted cookie. A bandaged hand reached from the lump of covers and snatched the sweet from the tray and back into the darkness with him. Before the limb was completely contracted, John took hold of the slim wrist. “Come out, Sher. Eat some real food before you set out to rot your teeth.”

Weak tugging preceded a plaintive whine, but it wasn’t long before the youngster divested his warm burrow; mostly, at least. Sherlock sat up, but used his free hand to keep himself covered on the right side. John let him loose once he saw he was being obeyed. John nodded and began his struggle of trying to eat with the wrong hand. He senses the officer wanted to help him, but he was too unsure after the last incident, and John was too proud to ask for help. Sherlock would probably help him in a bit, anyhow. Except, Sherlock was eating with his non-dominant hand also, and he wasn’t the only one to notice.

Sherlock’s left hand descended upon the finger friendly foods: the bread and the cookies, but left the soup untouched. The bowl contained a light broth, nothing too mushy, so John knew he wasn’t ignoring the food on texture principle. He watched in his peripheral, more subtle than Greg, who was trying to analyze the reason as to why, rather than ask. Once, there was nothing left to grab, he noticed Sherlock looked longingly at the spoon and then down again. He trudged through his own meal and became more suspicious when the younger boy didn’t offer assistance, even when Greg stepped up to help. The smaller form just glared at the man, and bit his lip as he pulled the blankets closer.

“Mmm, this soup is good,” John exaggerated, as Greg lifted a spoonful. “Sherlock, don’t you want yours?” The curls bobbed up and down. “Then eat it, it’ll warm you up better than blanket will. From the inside out.”

Sherlock bit his lip again, and looked from his friend to the bowl. He hesitated, but he did reach for the spoon. Almost all of the liquid made it to his mouth, he smiled, until he noticed the wet warmth seeping on to his leg.

“Use your right hand, Sher, otherwise you’re just going to make a mess. Just ‘cause I can’t use mine, doesn’t mean you can’t use yours. I won’t mind,” John hoped that Sherlock was just trying to empathize, but that was dashed when Sherlock grasped the blankets tighter to his right side. He shook his head at John, but didn’t reach for the spoon again.  
Beyond suspicious now, Greg reached to take away the cover, but paused when teeth were bared and a growl emanated. Brow raised he glanced at John for help. John ignored the hostile behavior and yanked the blankets away from the anxiously, aggressive child. The resounding yelp was a mixture of pain and fear.

Sherlock guarded a bloody gauze close to his chest, wrapping around himself as much as he could. His left hand rose to his mouth, teeth nibbled at long fingers. John snatched that hand away and held it securely in his own. He was trying not to let his alarm show, he wasn’t new to this type of behavior, but it never got easy to see. Greg reached for the crimson covered hand again, and Sherlock flinched. He paused a foot away. “Sherlock, will you show me where you’re hurt?”

A slight rocking motion was his response, but he caught stormy eyes assessing both him and John. “Not mad?” The eight year old sounded so much younger, it nearly squeezed his heart in two. Before he could answer, John spoke up.

“Yes.” The next flinch was ignored and Greg almost asked what John was thinking, but was cut off. “Yes, I am mad that you hurt yourself, but, that’s ok.” John’s thumb brushed across knuckles. “It’s not ok that you injured yourself,” he amended, to make himself clear, “but it’s ok that I’m mad about it. Being mad about that means I care. Remember?”

Sherlock nodded. He bit his lip again turned back to Greg expectantly. “I’m not mad, Sherlock.” The crestfallen face was quick to recover and the detective would have thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, if he didn’t know better. “I’m worried, concerned, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. Now, can I see your hand?” The limb was produced and Greg winced at the damage. The gauze had been mostly chewed through and teeth impressions littered the once white skin. The smaller bites had blood clotted, the larger wound still had ringlets of blood trickling out. He noticed a couple had pockets of yellowish white scabbing over them.

“Sherlock, I think a couple of these are infected. I’m going to call the nurse and you’re going to let them treat you, understood?” He told the boy, the no nonsense tone concealing the worry.

The fleeting half smile given from John is reassuring that he did something right. Greg called a nurse in to check the wounds, but wouldn’t let her push him from the room. Without him there, he was sure Sherlock wouldn’t let the woman even have a peek at his hands. Without fuss, Sherlock produced his injured limb from the protective pool of blankets, eyes darting between the nurse and Lestrade. The examination started smoothly, visual assessment was just fine, but when the nurse went to palpate the arm, Sherlock jerked back like he’d been touched with a hot poker.

“Sherlock,” Greg warned. Even with brief escapes and the odd snooze, he was still exhausted and really didn’t feel up to fighting the boy on this.

The child gritted his teeth, but flung his arm back towards the nurse with a huff. He glared angrily into the abyss, flinching with every stroke across his battered flesh. He shrugged off the comforting hand John had tried to rest upon his shoulder, and returned to pointedly ignoring everyone.

“Well, young man,” the nurse addressed her pouting charge. “It would seem you’ve done quite the number on yourself.” She turned toward Greg and informed him, “I’ll have Dr. Wesslyn prescribe some antibiotics, and see about getting these wounds cleaned and dressed.” She returned to prodding at the arm in her grasp, mashing at a particularly nasty bite. The pus that oozed had John gagging and he quickly looked away. “If you continue to self-injure like this, I’m afraid we’ll have to restrain you, son. The human mouth is full of harmful bacteria.”

The reaction was instant; Sherlock lurched backwards, crouching down low and defensive. His teeth bared and the resounding growl was almost feral. If Greg hadn’t known any better he would have thought he was looking at a wild dog backed into a corner. John leapt into action, putting himself between the threat and his friend, his own face fierce and protective. Greg stepped forward and placed a firm, reassuring hand on John’s shoulder.

“That won’t be necessary, ma’am.”

“I understand it is not ideal. I would hate for the child to endure it as well, but for his safety and health it is an option that you really need to keep as a possibility, and one we might not have a choice in. We only want to make sure that the lad is cared for.” Her hands on her hips, she stood her ground, obviously used to dealing with obstinate patients and families.

Greg would remain unmoved on the matter though. Nothing, barring a life or death situation, would sway him to allow wrist cuffs on the boy. There were other routes to try before even considering extreme methods. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” he repeated, firmly. Without glancing at them, he asked, “Will it, boys?”

Two head rose up in acknowledgement, nodding emphatically. The pairs of eyes returned to their hostile showdown afterwards. The nurse rolled her eyes, but let it go for now. She turned to leave, but muttered a “we’ll see” under her breath. The door shut behind her, closing out the tension and hustle of the rest of the hospital. John’s shoulder sagged under Greg’s heavy hand and he shrugged it off as he twirled to gather his friend in a tight hug.

“It’s alright now, Sher,” He petted the boy’s curls. “No one’s going to tie you up. Even Greg won’t let, did ya hear that?”

“I’m not a dog,” came the muffled response. His face buried in John’s shirt, he heaved a watery sigh. The adrenaline rush wearing off quickly, leeching what energy he had gained from the long lasting rest he’d been getting.

The lines in Greg’s face melted as his frown deepened. He didn’t bother to hide it from the calculating eye that popped from its hiding spot in John’s chest. He was growing more concerned about what the boys might have gone through, and worried he might not be able to deal with it when he found out. The stress was almost overwhelming as the feelings of inadequacy and being in over his head danced across his mind and heart. These boys were going to need better than good intentions and a roof, and food.

“No, Sher, not a dog.” He squeezed the boy once more and set him back up on the bed, distracting him while they waited for someone to come and take care of Sherlock’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Leave a message with your thoughts, please. God Bless!


End file.
